#commanderposting

Two shots rang out, cutting the manic screaming dead. A sobbing engineer was pinned by the Hound ragdolled onto him, its teeth still buried in the tech's shoulder. The Hound's Handler lie motionless beside them, her neck a smear of gore.

The agent that put the Hound down thumbed their radio. "Put me through to the Commander."

. . .

This was not something the Commander needed to deal with today. The sortie this Hound was returning from, while not a botchjob per se had been a total shitshow. The lance had been ambushed by heavy infantry that knew what it was doing.

The lance completed its mission and wiped out the unit of heavy infantry, but at considerable cost. Heavy damage to the entire lance, one mech was completely destroyed. Its Hound somehow survived; small favors, The Commander mused. Possible discipline needed, though, based on how it did survive.

Now, this. A cold Handler on the deck and her Hound the reason besides. The engineer was also going to be a wash for the next two weeks at least with the lacerations to his shoulder and arms, according to Medical. The conditioning and counseling to re-attenuate the tech to working around Hounds again possibly an additional month.

The Commander pinched the bridge of her nose in frustration. She began her assessment of the situation at the foot of her dead Handler.

The root cause of the Hound's malfunction needed to be pinpointed and corrected for. She needed a new Handler, and a new Hound. This was going to affect morale basewide. Support staff might start getting skittish around the Hounds.

…and the Captain was going to want a sitrep 20 minutes ago with answers for how everything in that list was going to be managed.

Did the trend thing with my friend guess wgich ome I did

The Holy.

Cringetober day 5: favorite cliche